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"So, about that date."
Stiles glances up from where he's peering through an old plastic shelving unit, elbow-deep in an ancient collection of sci-fi DVDs he had been partway through sorting, to find Derek standing in the doorway. The corner of his lips is tucked up into a smirk, and it makes Stiles' heart skip a beat until he gets what's so funny - he's stripped down to his Spider-Man underpants and socks and little else, nestled in a den of blankets and pillows as he organizes his dad's film collection. In his defence, he really wasn't expecting company.
He's unable to come up with a more eloquent response than an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak. 'eh?'
"That Date." Derek pronounces the word carefully, his smile twitching at the corners, as if he's suppressing the urge to laugh. He's clearly enjoying Stiles discomfort, the sadist. "Your words, if I remember correctly."
Stiles' dad chooses this exact moment to enter the room, a mug of coffee in either hand, his expression carefully neutral as he offers one to Derek, keeping the other for himself. Derek accepts the mug and gifts him with another dazzling smile that is, frankly, painful to look at. It's simple and honest, and it does things to Stiles that he'd rather not think about, embarrassing things, and he's not even a teenager anymore.
"A date, huh? You've not even been back two weeks yet."
Stiles splutters wordlessly, and is promptly ignored by the two of them as Derek shuffles over to make room, cradling the mug between both his hands. The sheriff waves him off with a smile.
"I'm not staying. Morning shift. There's more in the kitchen." Rolling his shoulders, he makes to leave the room, pausing in the doorway to throw a bemused glance over his shoulder. "Make sure Stiles doesn't leave the machine on after it's been emptied. We don't need the fire department to make another house call."
"Of course. And, thank you."
"Don't mention it."
"This- this is totally unfair. You two cannot gang up on me."
"What - choose between my best deputy and my son? I'm just here to provide the coffee."
He manages to leave the room before Stiles has a chance to throw back "and where's my coffee?", although Stiles can hear the sound of his laughter echo down the hall.
"What a piece of work."
Derek hmmm's contemplatively, moving around the back of the sofa to perch on the arm, a smile playing on his lips. "Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?"
Stiles points a warning finger at him. It's too early in the morning, and he stayed up far too late to be able to deal with any of this bull crap. "Shut it."
Derek's lip twitch with suppressed laughter, but he nods, acquiescing. For now.
Stiles lets out a long, deep breath and looks back down at the box beneath his hands. He fights the urge to throws his hands in the air and walk out. Jesus, this job didn't seem that big when he'd first thought about doing it.
"Isn't it a bit early for spring cleaning?"
He glances back up to find Derek has moved closer, leaning in towards him with his elbows on his knees as he surveys the construction site that used to be the living room floor. Half the room is taken up by what looks like a half-built office desk, from the piles of discarded screws and littered papers, whilst the other is a mess of DVDs, pillows and blankets.
It's obvious that Stiles slept here just by looking at the state of his hair, even without taking in the way his scent has permeated everything in the room, stale and a little sour - although Stiles had bathed last night.
Werewolves.
"Were you setting up an office?"
"I was trying to." He waves a hand half-heartedly at the half-built desk he'd abandoned after three hours of pointless hunting for a screw that didn't exist. "Fuck Ikea."
Derek snorts, puts a hand over his mouth to smother it. At Stiles narrow-eyed glare he raises them, coughing as he explains, "I had the same problem when I outfitted my new apartment. I was always one screw short."
"They're evil. I bet they're run by vampires. Little vampires, named Eli and Oskar."
At Derek's look, he grins, giving a careless shrug that highlights the line of his collarbone. "If I'm wrong, I'm wrong, but I'd stake money on it. Heh."
Stiles devolves into chuckling laughter as Derek drops his face into his hands.
"That was terrible."
"I try."
"Want to get out of here?"
Stiles takes another look around himself, at the mess of his life, his mismatched belongings strewn across his new 'office' alongside the litter of papers that detail his research on graduate schools and other various odds and ends, and he nods. "Yes, please."
--
Stiles leaves Derek in the kitchen to finish his coffee while he heads up the stairs to change into something decent, although the Spiderman underpants may stay as they're damn comfortable. He's going through his old drawers - and it still amazes him just how much his father kept - when he stumbles across his collection of novelty shirts. He has to suppress a laugh at some of them. It's true to form to teenage Stilinski: just vague enough to be acceptable at school. He fishes one out for old times’ sake, coupled with a flannel over shirt. He hasn't felt this juvenile in years.
Derek's wearing his BHSD shirt, his name embroidered onto the upper right hand corner of his pocket. 'Deputy Derek S. Hale.' Stiles has been working on wrangling his middle name from him with a dogged tenacity, even going as far as to pick up a few past editions of a baby naming guide from the library, ignoring the odd looks the old librarians gave him.
(Derek had taken one look at the stack of books on the kitchen table the next time he came around and laughed, informing Stiles it was European in origin. Stiles spent the next twenty minutes quizzing him on a list of Romanian names he’d found online, until Derek finished his breakfast and walked out.)
Stiles' adjustment back into Beacon Hills after four years had been relatively unremarkable. It had been like putting on an old glove - he'd fallen back into a routine he'd almost forgotten, old friendships slotting into place as if he'd never left. And he hadn't, in a way; he'd always been available, only a phone call or a Skype chat away -- he just hadn't been here, physically.
Derek lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the kitchen counter when Stiles makes it downstairs, a brow raised as he gestures to the emblazoned 'Got Milk? Ewe Would' sheep illustration. Stiles shrugs in response, unable to smother his grin as Derek downs the last of his coffee before moving to the sink to rinse out the mug. "Only you, Stilinski."
Stiles wrinkles his nose at that. "Stilinski is my dad."
Derek 'hmmms' again. "That's right, your name is G-"
"Do NOT finish that sentence. I won't even ask how the hell you figured it out - wait, it's probably on my file at the station, you creeper - just don't you dare say it."
Derek doesn't bother to cover his laugh this time, his eyes gleaming as he pushes away from the counter and wipes his hands on a tea towel. "Alright. Are you ready?"
"Yes. Let's go."
--
The place Derek has chosen for them is new, or at least new in Stiles' terms: an old-timey diner set up in the middle of town. It's so plastered with fifties decor that it gives Stiles nostalgia for a time before he was even born, and the food is good, better than he'd have expected from a place so remote. It also turns out that the Beacon Hills' sheriff’s department gets a discount here, a fact that Stiles carefully files away for further investigation as he tucks into his half a foot high stack of pancakes. It's just as well, as Derek packs down two adult sized portions of waffles and bacon without breaking a sweat, and even Stiles, who has grown up among werewolves, has to be impressed.
The place is pleasantly crowded, due to the fact it's a Sunday afternoon, and they're seated at a booth to the back, with a view of the park.
"Can I get you anything else, sugar?"
Stiles glances up as the waitress pauses at the edge of the table, her rosy cheeks, pastel apron and tight ringlets demonstrating a remarkable dedication to the restaurant's theme. When she beams at Stiles he can't help but smile back.
"I'm great, thank you."
"Another coffee, Angie, if you don't mind."
She nods, her smile dimpling her cheeks in a way that reminds him, excruciatingly, of Allison. "Absolutely. I'll be back in a jiffy."
He watches her go with a familiar weight on his heart, taking a breath before he pushes the thought away. He glances back to find Derek watching him, his brow furrowed for a moment before it smoothes out. He gestures to Stiles' last pancake.
"Are you going to eat that?"
Stiles shakes his head and pushes the plate towards him, watching with abject fascination as Derek smothers it with butter before piling it on top of his tower of food.
So. First things first. He asks a question he's been chewing on for a while.
"When did you move back to Beacon Hills?" At Derek's blank look, he clarifies, "after the whole 'dead pool' incident."
Derek's expression clears. "You were in LA by the time I came back."
It's not a question, but Stiles nods anyway. "I moved into campus early, and took some summer classes. I didn't expect you to come back anytime soon, or, hell, at all. It looked like you needed some time."
Not that Stiles can blame him. It had taken Stiles more than four years to come back.
"I was gone for a little over ten months. Traveling, mainly." His eyes go distant, a small smile creeping up the corners of his lips. "It gave Cora and I a chance to catch up. It was - good."
"Has she ever come back here to visit?"
"Once or twice." More than Stiles had, then. It doesn't surprise him that she'd been able to overcome her trepidations; the Hales were made of strong stuff.
They fall into a comfortable silence, the ambient sounds of the restaurant, the clattering of cutlery, and the low buzz of conversation, wrapping softly around them. Stiles toys with his fork, pushing around the remnants of his breakfast as he tries to think of a way to continue the conversation. They've brushed too close to dangerous territory, and even though he's been back a few weeks now, some topics are still difficult for him.
He glances away from his practically empty plate to find Derek's eyes on him, his expression still soft the way it always gets when he talks about his sister. "...so. What's the occasion?"
"Hmm?"
"Brunch. There has to be a particular reason you asked me out."
Derek snorts inelegantly, raising a brow and gesturing towards Stiles with a food-laden fork. "Well, technically, you asked me out."
Stiles watches as Derek efficiently shovels three layers of food into his mouth. It's grotesquely fascinating. "The offer has been standing for weeks. With dad working longer hours recently, I figured you were busy with a case." He leans forward, his gaze intent as he drums his thumbs against the table cloth. "Which means you need my help."
Derek has the audacity to look offended. "What, we can't catch up over breakfast without me wanting something?"
"We hang out all the time at my place. You even bring the snacks for game night." Not that Stiles is complaining - Derek always made sure to bring the healthier options, despite his father’s underlying disapproval.
Derek chews for a long moment, studying him, before releasing a small sigh. "That's not what this was meant to be, Stiles."
"But there is something." Derek doesn't respond, but Stiles has long since been adept at reading him. The prospect of a case, of something to break up the monotony of grad school research and job applications, is too much to pass up. He's been climbing the walls all week. "What are the-"
Derek interrupts him with a frown, the hand not holding a fork held out in placation. "Slow down. Let me finish my breakfast first."
--
It turns out that the 'little issue' that has been plaguing the Beacon Hills Sheriff's department for the last few months is definitely not one to be discussed over food, as it consists of not only grave robbing, but apparent cannibalism.
"Are you okay with this?" Derek has perfected the art of limiting the amount of emotion he allows to show on his features, but Stiles has had many years of practice, and he can see the worry that lingers around the edges, pinching the skin at the corners of his eyes.
Stiles has already thought long and hard about what he'd do, if - when - something new cropped up in the ill-fated town that was Beacon Hills. It wasn't difficult to find an answer to Derek's question, as he’d long since come to the conclusion that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, be able to sit on the side lines while the people he cared about took care of the problem.
He makes a face at Derek’s expression and pushes for more details on the murders - the gruesome ones that Derek had been keeping purposefully vague on while they were eating.
They are well into their second pot of coffee, and Stiles is just beginning to break it down ("you say it's the entire head? With no identifiable tool marks, or anything?" "I've never seen anything like it.") when Derek breaks off, dropping his explanation of the second coroner’s report to shoot a glance to the front of the diner, his fork lowering in surprise.
A moment later, a familiar shout rings out across the room, and Stiles turns to find Scott making his way towards them, wearing a smile of approximately ten thousand watts. He's laden with shopping bags from the fancy stationers nearby, and - of course, it was for the wedding.
On the night they'd all traveled up to UCLA to celebrate Scott's admission into medical school, he'd dropped to one knee and asked if Kira would mind spending the rest of her life with him. It was all very romantic, and there were tears involved on all sides (including Stiles, as really, who wouldn't get dewy-eyed when their best friend/brother got engaged?).
Scott slides the bags under their table, dropping into the booth beside Derek as he reaches over the table to grasp Stiles’ hands. “Dude. When your dad mentioned you were coming home, I almost didn’t believe it.”
Stiles barks out a laugh, waving off Derek when he glances at him, an eyebrow quirked in question. “I know. It’s funny where life takes you.” He gestures at the bags, and it’s Scott’s turn to laugh, his cheeks taking on a rosy hue. “Anyway, I thought you were out of town for the week, visiting Kira’s folks in Wisconsin.”
“Something came up, we had to postpone, and then the cards came in for the invitations.” He brightens, glancing from side to side before leaning forward conspiratorially. “Do you want to see them? I have the final drafts right here…”
“And spoil the surprise?”
Stiles makes a face in Derek’s general direction. “Such a stick in the mud.”
Scott glances between them, realisation dawning on his expression as he takes in the two of them and the stacks of empty dishes. His eyes, annoyingly enough, seek Derek’s as he gestures at the table. “I’m sorry, was I – am I interrupting something?”
“Wha-”
“Nothing,” Derek interrupts, before Stiles can even get the word out, shooting a glance in his direction before glancing down at his plate and picking up his fork again. “Nothing. Just breakfast.”
Scott’s eyes are narrowed again on Derek (which Stiles will be asking him about later), as Derek makes short work of the last of his pancakes. “I see.”
Anything else he may have had to say about that is forgotten as his phone releases a chime, sending him freezing in his seat, glancing down at the bags in growing horror. He stays like that just long enough to spit out a curse, before he’s back on his feet with the bags in his hands, speeding towards the door as he throws an apology over his shoulder.
Stiles laughs as he watches him stumble out onto the street and start sprinting, expression panicked as if the hounds of hell were behind him,
“So what was that?”
“Hmm?”
“That ‘nothing’?”
“Ah.” Derek glances back at his plate, studiously avoiding eye contact as he mops up the last of his breakfast. “Just didn’t want to worry him about the case, that’s all.”
“Fair enough.”
--
The sun is hanging much lower in the sky than it had been when they’d first entered the diner, and Stiles makes a face at the wall of heat that confronts him the moment he steps outside. When he turns to face Derek, it’s to find his eyes on him again, wearing an easy, comfortable smile that evokes warm, fuzzy feelings within his chest. Stiles can’t help his returning grin, gesturing towards where Derek parked his Toyota. (And whilst it’s pretty, it’s absolutely nothing compared to the Camaro. Stiles hasn't seen the beautiful muscle car in years; he wonders if Derek moved it into storage somewhere. He can't have sold it. He wouldn't do that to them.)
“So. What next?”
Derek rolls his shoulders in an easy shrug, crossing his arms as he leans against the roof of the car. His profile cuts a sharp silhouette against the murky swirl of colours that stain the sky this far out into the country, and it's almost unfamiliar after so many years in the city. “I have the rest of day and tomorrow off, and no immediate plans. What do you want to do?”
“Why don't we crash at your loft? We can put on the X-Files on and go over case notes. Maybe I can help shine some light on your ‘mystery’ murders.”
He gives him a look at that, to which Stiles responds with an obligatory eye roll. It's like a dance with him – they’re falling back into their familiar patterns as if Stiles had never left.
“Come on, Derek.”
Derek doesn't respond immediately, his eyes cast down as he frowns at the pavement.
"Seriously; you know me, you had to know this was coming."
"...Which is why I already have a copy of the files at home."
"Wait, seriously?" He breaks into a wide grin, leaning across the car to slap Derek on the shoulder, which he allows, albeit begrudgingly. "You are the best. Have I told you that recently? The best."
Derek lets out a loud exasperated breath and glances away, his ears pinking at the edges as he digs his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the car. "Just shut up and get in, Stiles."